The Gift
by Ciderbreak1
Summary: Aragorn tries to sleep the night before a big battle


SUBJECT: Fic.  
  
AUTHOR: Ciderbreak  
  
RATING: PG  
  
PAIRING: Aragorn/Arwen  
  
DISCLAIMER: LOTR owned by JRR Tolkein, no infringement implied  
  
CONTEXT: In terms of what the characters look like, it's movieverse. But in terms of the time frame, it's bookverse. It's the night before Aragorn rides out, after receiving the gift of a long, rolled-up package from Arwen.  
  
SUMMARY: Just evening out the odds of all that slash out there! :)  
  
SUMMARY 2: "Come to me in my dreams at night, and then, by day I will be well again."  
  
  
  
Aragorn laid down not on the bed, as he had so many nights past in the king's house, but on the cold, stone floor. The rock was hard and unyielding against his back, jutting painfully into the corded muscles of his shoulders as he crossed his arms and stared up at the ceiling.  
  
Tomorrow.  
  
Tomorrow he would ride out on a quest almost as impossible as Frodo's. The Paths of the Dead. To be sure, he had a steed that was more than capable of making the journey and companions that would die with him, for him. They would be carefully provisioned by the king of Rohan, in whom Aragorn had found a fellow warrior spirit and kindred friend. The end of their journey was yet unknown and the hope of victory but a slim shard of light in the darkness, as if the sun had caught the edge of his sword for a second. That would be enough to unsettle any man, but Aragorn was not so burdened.  
  
He had a gift.  
  
It was rolled up tightly, bound with oilcloth to protect it and elven string to hold it shut tight against the elements, against dirt, grime, and blood that might be spilled near or on it. The giver knew the consequences of a Ranger's life, and had provided the gift suitable protection until it could be opened, used as it should be. Aragorn dared not picture himself undoing the knots on the gift. He could not lose himself in a triumph that was not his to celebrate, yet.  
  
This was why he was lying on the floor, arms crossed over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, wholly uncomfortable and alone. In the back of his mind he knew that isolation was his choice. He could have his friends bunk in with him, take comfort in their varying degrees of snoring and assure himself that everything would be fine. Or, if he had less integrity, he could discreetly beckon a willing female into his room, to share the bed piled high with blankets. The last thought turned his stomach and he scoffed at himself. What temptation hadn't he faced, on his travels? The One Ring had been the greatest temptation, to be sure. If he could, with Frodo's help, resist its call, could he not suffer one night alone before he went to his destiny?  
  
It seemed not.  
  
--You miss her--, his mind whispered, and Aragorn shut his eyes on a sudden rush of hot liquid. If he opened them, wiped his face with the sleeve of his jerkin, he could look across the room and see the gift propped up against the wall. Even picturing it in his mind threatened to undo him, and for the life of him he could not tamp down his emotion. She knew what he faced. Somehow, she knew it and had sent along a present that represented hope, love, promise—everything it felt like he lacked at the present moment. She'd also challenged him, for if he failed, the gift would be useless. There would be no need to untie the string, unroll the oilcloth, breathe deeply of the scent of Rivendell that still clung to the item inside.  
  
Aragorn was unaware he was crying until the tears trickled down his temples, wetting his hair, his ears. He barely made a sound as he cried, too old to sob like a child and too tender to repress it completely. A few gulps of air eased the stinging sensation in his chest, and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, which was, for once, clean. Instinctively, he brought his hand to his mouth and sucked on the knuckle of his index finger, something he hadn't done since he was a child, what seemed like lifetimes ago. The skin was salty with his tears and he sighed, the trembling breath barely making a sound in the dark, quiet room. As quickly as the sorrow had come, it eased, and his heart felt a little lighter. No shame in tears, he reminded himself, as Elrond had taught him. Elves might possess masterful command over their emotions, but for good or ill, men wore their passion on their sleeves, raised it high on the banners over their households and wove it into their relationships like gold thread. Despite his upbringing, Aragorn was no less of a man. No more of a man, either. For now, he was still Strider, without home, without land, without people. Exiled and bent for the kind of life that allowed to him to even contemplate a headlong descent into darkness, as he would do on the morrow.  
  
He turned his head to the side, finding the stone cool and hard underneath his cheek. Breaking down a little had rid him of most of his stubborn attitude and he arose, toeing off his boots and pulling back the blankets of the bed. It would be a long time before he could seek this kind of rest, and it would be unwise to waste it. The luxury of having his own room was something else he could not take for granted. The isolation that minutes ago had seemed cruel, was now a jewel to be treasured. He stripped off his clothing, sliding between the clean sheets with a shuddering sigh. Only his bed in the house of Elrond could compare to the comfort Rohan offered its honored guests.  
  
He would not glance at the gift before he went to sleep. He would simply close his eyes and steady his heart, even out his breathing and begin preparing himself for the task at hand. He would try his best—more than his best, if truth be told—and may fate smile on him.  
  
Sleep overcame him quicker than he expected, but his dreams would not let him rest.  
  
Shadowy nightmares plagued him, not letting him wake up. Aragorn was conscious enough to know he was fighting alone, battling foes that were not real. He could feel his muscles strain to lift his sword and found them uncooperative, weak. He was not fast enough to run away. He was not swift enough to avoid the blows raining down on his head. His armor was too heavy to bear. He would die. He would fail.  
  
THUD.  
  
Aragorn sat straight up in bed, his body covered with a sheen of sweat. He breathed as though he had just sprinted uphill, his eyes wide with fright. Across the room, the gift had fallen where it was propped up against the wall, and now lay on the stone floor where someone might step on it if they came in to wake him at dawn. He was out of bed in a heartbeat, gingerly picking up the long, flat package. He carried it over to the bed and leaned it up against the wall again, fitting the bottom of it in a groove so it could not fall again. He pulled his travel gear over as well, securing the package on one side. It wasn't his fear that the gift would break, he just did not want to see it rolling about on the floor. Also, it would settle his spirit to have it so close as he tried to find sleep again.  
  
Unfortunately, rest was not to be had. His nightmare picked up right where it left off, with him helpless and getting vanquished in battle. He strained to wake himself up, but he could not. He was trapped in a dreamworld where time and again, he would rise to his feet only to get knocked down. He could smell the blood, taste the sweat, feel the shame and almost resigned himself to it.  
  
Almost.  
  
He was not so weak as to let his mind be sucked into the vortex of whatever was torturing him. In between blows, he thought of Arwen. Sometimes he only had a split second, and found himself remembering the silk of her hair, the crystal sound of her laughter. A few times, there were whole minutes of rest before a new, stronger enemy would begin to try and kill him, and he just pictured her eyes. Her soul lay there, or at least the doorway to it. Aragorn had no illusions about the love of his life. She was wise and beautiful and made his heart sing with the glory of a thousand silver trumpets. She was also far away, and he was not yet worthy of her. Elrond had made that painfully clear. No less than a king for his daughter. Aragorn agreed, and were it not his destiny, he might have thrown himself in the river out of despair of never coming close to reaching what he so deeply desired. He knew her heart. He wanted to spend the rest of his life talking with her, gleaning her wisdom and humor, making her laugh. He wanted to take her with him and travel back to the most beautiful places he'd seen in Middle Earth, so she could see through his eyes the wonder of it all. And he would, if he could only win the battle.  
  
A sharp blow descended on the back of his head, in the dream, and Aragorn cried out in the real world, the echo of his own voice waking him once more.  
  
The soreness and pain faded, and he rolled over onto his stomach, exhausted. What evil had crept into his mind, that he could not even sleep without his doubts taking tangible form to abuse him? Weariness threatened to set in, depression once again lingered at the edge of his consciousness. Certainly Sauron would rather there never be a king in Gondor. If his slimy tentacles could reach a mind all the way from Mount Doom, how could Aragorn even think of reaching his goal?  
  
Tiredly, Aragorn fluttered his eyes open and his gaze came to rest on Arwen's gift.  
  
"That's it," he muttered, and, reaching out with one hand, yanked the package onto the mattress with him. He closed one hand over the oilcloth and shoved his other arm underneath the pillow, resting his head on top of it. He would try once more to sleep, and then give up and go out to meet the cheerless dawn.  
  
It was with relief that he drifted off into a slumber devoid of misty enemies that meant him harm. Instead, he dreamed of Arwen. More of a flashback, really, Aragorn decided, since he was dreaming with enough lucidity to know the difference. Awake and yet dreaming. Well, it was not the deep sleep every tired warrior welcomed, but it was better than being assaulted by shadows. He saw them on the bridge, the Evenstar safe in his palm, kissing her chastely on the lips. That was a kiss to seal a promise, her promise that she would give up immortality to be with him. Half of him wanted to talk her out of it—who was he, really, besides a scruffy Ranger with nothing to offer her? But the other half of him was humming with the rightness of it all. Of course she should be with him. Who else would love her so completely, so devotedly? He would die a thousand deaths before he saw her harmed.  
  
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Aragorn quickly moved his hands out of the way, lest he touch something forbidden. He fastened the Evenstar around his neck and knew that he would never take it off. It would remain at the base of his throat, a constant reminder of the woman he loved and the kingdom he fought to gain. To his surprise, Arwen bent her head and kissed the pulse point in his throat, under the pendant. He sucked in a sharp breath and closed his hands over her shoulders.  
  
"Don't," he begged her.  
  
She roundly ignored him, and kissed her way up his neck to nibble on his ear. Aragorn groaned and his grip tightened on her shoulders. Through the silk of her garment he could feel her skin heating up slightly, her body temperature rising to match his. She pressed against him, leaving no doubt as to her desire, or his.  
  
"Arwen," he said again, warning in his voice. They'd had this conversation before. What seemed perfectly natural would be shadowed by the fact that though they were in love, and promised, they were not wed.. They did not have her father's approval. He could not claim the throne of Gondor, could not be called Elessar. He would not sully her with desire he could certainly muster a semblance of control over. She knew it, too. Why was she pushing him? Aragorn didn't remember this part. In truth, she had pulled back and blushed, and kissed him once more, then fled. In the dream, she was hungry for more. And so was he.  
  
"It's just a dream, Aragorn," she soothed him.  
  
"I cannot," he said, his voice breaking, and turned away. His hands were clenched into fists and he decided that this was worse torture than getting beat up. "I will not do this."  
  
A roar of frustration, sounding like nothing he'd ever heard in battle, deafened him as a freezing wind swirled up around him, taking away the dreamscape. No scent or sight of Arwen remained, only the warmth of the silver pendant at his neck.  
  
Aragorn opened his eyes.  
  
It was still dark outside, his hand was still on top of the gift, and he was alone in the room. Obviously, sleep was not an option. Someone sought to attack his mind by tempting him with his weaknesses, but they failed, whomever it was. He would not defend his pride as a warrior, because he valued his humility more. He would not ravish the woman meant for him, because she was not his to love in that way, yet. It made him furious to think that someone could twist his memory and try to break his will by using Arwen as bait.  
  
"They'll pay, I swear to you," he whispered raggedly, his eyes fixed on the cloth. "You know I would never force you to commit to such intimacy while such things are forbidden. And it's not for lack of wanting, I assure you, lady." Aragorn smiled wryly, knowing the way his body responded to the mere thought of her presence. "Trust me to protect you, even in this."  
  
He got no response from the gift, but when he closed his eyes this time, he did not dream. 


End file.
